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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651116">Wishin' and Hopin'</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot'>Margot_Lescargot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Once more, from the top [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(can be read as standalone), Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, First Date, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, POV Alexander Seawoll, Spoilers for The Hanging Tree and Lies Sleeping and False Value, covers action from One Hyde Park to beyond end of False Value</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:21:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years, Alex had grown into the identity he’d created, filled it out and embodied it with the presence and gravity that came from years of hard graft and accumulated experience.  He’d become the person he knew he was meant to be, and how many people could say that?  And throughout those years, whenever their paths crossed, as they did with greater frequency the more senior he became, Nightingale remained the same as he always had been – handsome, polite, discreet, unknowable.  A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Once more, from the top [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Into his arms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title by Dusty Springfield.</p><p>Many thanks to PerchingOwl for beta.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Thomas - a word?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes, what is it, Alexander?  Better make it quick.  We don’t have a great deal of time.</em>
</p><p>Later – much, much later – when he looked back on it, Alex thought it was probably One Hyde Park which had been the turning point, when things had changed.  But of course he hadn’t realised it at the time.</p><p>
  <em>You do remember the risk assessment we did.  Of this very situation?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes.  Of course.  What of it?</em>
</p><p>Matters had been getting progressively bizarre by that point, as they’d been chasing Lesley and her new governor, and their own tails.  Not as fucking bizarre as they would get, but that’s the beauty of hindsight isn’t it?  But Alex had been increasingly impressed by how Nightingale was handling things.  After Skygarden, and in the months following, he’d been cool, authoritative, level-headed.  None of those embarrassing fuck-ups, like with the mole people – he’d been across everything.  In charge.  And with none of that mincing, entitled, I’ll-do-it-my-way-because-it’s-magic-and-I’m-not-really-accountable-anyway bollocks either. </p><p>
  <em>And how we discussed all potential collateral?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If you’re talking about civilians, Alexander, you need have no fear.  They will obviously be my first consideration, no matter what we encounter in there.</em>
</p><p>Obviously it was Grant who was responsible for the increased integration of the Folly, if that was the right word, but there was more to it than that.  For the first time he could remember, Nightingale was properly engaging with what was going on.  And – when push came to shove – he was stepping up.   At an operational level.  He was behaving like a proper copper.  They’d done a joint risk assessment of the assault on One Hyde Park – “assault” obviously being Nightingale’s word for it – and it had been professional and competent and… fucking astonishing frankly.  They were all working together, as a team.  And it actually seemed to be working.</p><p>
  <em>Fair enough.  Have you got what you need?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I believe so.  I’ve gone into battle with less before now, certainly.</em>
</p><p>Then it all went tits up, of course, in the most expensive block of real estate in London, because that’s what it always did.  At least now, he acknowledged – if grudgingly – it wasn’t necessarily always <em>all</em> their fault.</p><p>
  <em>Right, then.  Do you actually know what you’re walking into here?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Honestly?  I haven’t the remotest idea.</em>
</p><p>At One Hyde Park, the night the shit properly went down, he’d seen Nightingale go into the building, not knowing what the fuck was waiting for him, and without the least hesitation.  Dressed like fuck knows what, it had to be said, but still.  At the time Alex had consciously thought of nothing more than concern for a fellow senior officer, the safety of his junior officers and any civilians, and the need to catch that slippery fucker with minimal collateral damage.  But afterwards, when the dust had settled – literally – he couldn’t help but think how fucking... impressive it had been.  On all fronts.</p><p>
  <em>Well, be careful, for fuck’s sake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I will.  Thank you, Alexander.</em>
</p><p><br/> <br/>He still looked the same as he had when Alex had first seen him twenty years earlier.  He’d quickly learned it was one of those things that was just never mentioned.  Back then he’d been a wet behind the ears DC, watching, waiting and learning, getting to know the job, getting better at it, and honing the persona that raised the least questions about his personal life.   The gay thing wasn’t something he made a song and dance about, but he didn’t go out of his way to keep it a secret either.  It was what it was.  He’d been lucky with his governors as he worked his way up, and if any of his contemporaries had an issue with it, then they could go fuck themselves, as he was more than happy to point out.  Later, once he was in a position to have underlings of his own, and together with the reputation he’d carefully crafted,  well, it was - perhaps unsurprisingly - never mentioned.</p><p>Over the years, Alex had grown into the identity he’d created, filled it out and embodied it with the presence and gravity that came from years of hard graft and accumulated experience.  He’d become the person he knew he was meant to be, and how many people could say that?  And throughout those years, whenever their paths crossed, as they did with greater frequency the more senior he became, Nightingale remained the same as he always had been – handsome, polite, discreet, unknowable.  A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.</p><p>He’d thought about it over the years - idly of course - about Nightingale, about <em>that</em>; wondered what impulses might lie beneath the layers of reserve and urbane deflection.  It was only natural.  But no one knew for certain about Nightingale; no one knew <em>anything</em> about Nightingale.  Before he’d taken on Peter as his apprentice – “apprentice” for fuck’s sake - he’d barely left the Folly.   Alex knew as he probably shouldn’t, through the office grapevine, that so far as Peter was concerned Nightingale had no discernible interest in anything of <em>that</em> nature.  But he didn’t necessarily agree.  Sometimes he thought he detected a glint, a spark of something, and on rare occasions there was a crooked grin, unexpectedly mischievous, and not unattractive, which made him think that that part of Nightingale’s life was not buried forever.  That still didn’t answer the question of which way he swung of course.  As a rule, Alex didn’t like to generalise or make assumptions - but really, he thought, the suits were a dead fucking giveaway.<br/> </p><p>Notwithstanding which, any vague and unexamined notions he might have had in respect of Nightingale were pushed to one side as they all waded deeper and deeper into the murky waters of Operation Jennifer.  He’d been a copper for over twenty-five years and had never had to deal with anything that fucking weird.  It had taken its toll on all of them, the Folly pair especially.  He’d watched with concern, and more than once tried to rein them in by playing the SIO card.  Much fucking good that had done in the end.</p><p>He knew – more than most after Covent Garden - how that sort of thing could affect people, particularly when there were no physical scars.  Which was why, after he’d spoken to Sahra and Peter about the benefit of talking to someone - and with little to absolutely no fucking effect on Peter so far as he could tell - once it was all over he decided to try again through Nightingale.  Even though Peter was temporarily off the force, Nightingale was still his governor and Peter might at least listen to <em>him</em>.  It was worth a try.</p><p>So when the reverberations of Jennifer had subsided into the more routine business of chasing leads and unravelling financial transactions - not to mention the fucking IPCC -  he called Nightingale.  They hadn’t seen each other outside of an interview room for weeks, so he wasn’t surprised at the wariness in Nightingale’s voice when he suggested they meet for a pint - pubs being the only real place to address delicate issues in his opinion.</p><p>He’d rung the landline at the Folly, as the most reliable means of getting hold of Nightingale, and – after exchanging a few pleasantries with Molly - well, exchanging was pushing a bit perhaps - waited to speak to him.</p><p>‘Hello?’</p><p>‘Thomas?  It’s Seawoll.’</p><p>‘Hello Alexander.  How are you?’</p><p>‘Well, thanks.  You?’</p><p>‘Oh, you know.  Getting on with things.’  A silence followed.  Alex knew Nightingale wanted to ask outright why he was calling but was far too well-mannered to do so.</p><p>‘I wondered if you were free to meet for a drink..’ he began, and then paused.  Fuck.  He realised he was making it sound like he was asking him on a date.  Which he wasn’t.</p><p>‘A drink?’ said Nightingale carefully.</p><p>‘I want to talk to you about Grant,’ he said quickly.  He took a breath.  ‘What I mean is, I’m concerned about him.  I assume you are as well.  And aside from the suspension - which is bollocks obviously - I thought we could put our heads together, off the books as it were, and see what’s best to be done.’</p><p>‘Oh.  I see.  Yes.  Good idea.’  Nightingale sounded relieved, which, for some reason, he found vaguely annoying.</p><p>                                                                     <br/>They met a few days later in a small, square, brown and brass pub not far from Russell Square, frequented mainly by first-year medical students it seemed.   Though still looking drawn and somewhat haggard, Nightingale was in good spirits and greeted him cordially.  They found a table and chatted briefly about work and the ongoing investigations before Alex turned the conversation without preamble. </p><p>‘Have you seen Grant lately?’</p><p>Nightingale stiffened slightly.  ‘Not as such.  Generally not without a Federation representative present, since he collected his things.  We are intending to resume pr-, um, training at some point in the near future, but I considered it best to leave it for the present.   I don’t believe there’s any immediate danger.  And further,’ Nightingale’s entire demeanour suddenly radiated revulsion, ‘ if <em>she</em> chooses to make an appearance then I shall be more than ready for her.’</p><p>‘You and me both,’ said Alex grimly and, after a brief hesitation, they clinked glasses.</p><p>‘That’s not exactly what I meant though,’ he continued.  ‘He’s not well, the lad, you do know that?’</p><p>‘Yes,’ said Nightingale after a pause.  ‘I do.  He’s been given the all-clear.  Medically I mean - although Abdul has confided to me separately that he’s not happy about the weight loss.'  He looked at Alex.  'But that’s not what you‘re referring to, is it?’</p><p>‘No.’</p><p>‘Quite.’  Nightingale put down his glass and exhaled.  ‘I have no doubt you think that I pushed him too hard these last months, or rather, perhaps,’ as Alex held up a placatory hand, ‘that I did not prevent him from pushing himself as hard as he did.  And I would have to say that you were right.’  He hesitated, collecting his thoughts.   ‘Peter’s education – from the very beginning - has, of necessity, been somewhat martial.  That it has been so was in part due to the reason of my needing an apprentice in the first place; a reason which I need not remind you was swiftly borne out.’  He took a drink, as Alex remained silent. </p><p>‘But the last few months especially have been difficult in the extreme and I – as you have pointed out in the past – am not always as adroit at dealing with the consequences as I might be.  As the situation… escalated, I have dealt with matters in the way that seemed most appropriate - that is to say the way I have always done so in the past, but which – I now realise – was perhaps not the most useful example to set a junior officer.’</p><p>Alex gave him a thoughtful look.   ‘Well, don’t beat yourself up about it.  I’m sure you did what you thought best at the time.   I’m not saying that it helped, but Peter’s got a mind of his own, and this all goes back to Lesley and Skygarden in any event.  If not before.  How long was it that he’d been with you before he was almost pushed off a roof in Berwick Street?’  He shook his head.  ‘And none of us need reminding about the fucking fiasco in Covent Garden.’</p><p>He saw Nightingale wince.</p><p>‘No, sorry, that’s not…  I’m not trying to lay any blame here.’  He took a breath.  ‘The only point I’m attempting to make – probably badly – is that Peter <em>really</em> needs to go and talk to someone about all this stuff.  To someone who's trained to deal with it.  And not just about the last few months, but about the last few years.  There’s far too much macho bullshit in this job and there’s no shame in asking for help.’</p><p>‘Absolutely.  I agree.’</p><p>‘You do?’</p><p>‘Of course.   I’m happy to speak to him about it if you think it would be better coming from me.’</p><p>‘Er, yeah.  That would probably help.  Thanks.’</p><p>He’d been expecting to have to argue his point more forcefully, and had come prepared to do so, but Nightingale seemed much more aware of the impact on Peter of the last few years than he would have thought, and he mentally tipped his hat to him for finally joining the 21st century.  So much so that, over a mutually-agreed second pint, and with a hell of a lot more tact than he usually deployed, he risked suggesting, gently, to Nightingale that he might also find what he termed “professional help” to be of some use.</p><p>Nightingale was silent for some time after he had spoken, and he had the sinking feeling that he had offended him irrevocably.  It was impossible to know what he was thinking at the best of times.  He waited, watching him closely, when finally, he looked up from the patch of tabletop he had been contemplating and offered Alex a slightly strained smile.</p><p>‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said.  ‘I've been thinking about this at some length of late and I cannot help but see that you are.  In general terms I mean.  But,’ he paused, ‘so far as I am concerned... if I’m honest, I’d have to say that it's far too daunting a task.  Or that's how it feels, at any rate.’</p><p>Alex didn’t speak, merely inclining his head in mute question.</p><p>‘This, I mean,’ and he gestured down at himself.  ‘Clearly <em>this</em> is not… usual.  And even in the event that anyone could be found to whom I could speak about this and the more esoteric matters, there are still decades of other… issues – would that be the correct term? – almost a century’s worth in fact.  I’m not sure I’d even know where to begin.'  He paused again, before looking back to Alex sharply.  'I have to say, this is not a topic I'd anticipated discussing today, but as we've reached this point...'  Alex nodded encouragingly, and Nightingale took a breath and resumed.  'As I say, I’ve reflected on this last operation especially, and how matters turned out, and realised quite how much certain things do not change.  Behaviours remain the same, and one reverts inexorably to type, no matter how much one would choose not to.'  He fell silent again, for a moment or two before continuing.  'And so much time has passed, so many…’  He cleared his throat  ‘Simply put: I'm not sure that it would help.  Or rather, I suppose, I'm not sure that it could.’  </p><p>Alex spoke.  ‘But there’d be nothing lost in trying.  I mean, I could say “every journey starts with a single step” - but I’d have to be escorted from the premises if I did.’</p><p>Nightingale looked up at him and smiled, and this time it reached his eyes.</p><p>‘We’ve already found someone for Peter.  Well your Professor Postmartin did, as a matter of fact,’ said Alex. ‘Someone familiar with the more, er, esoteric matters.  Why don’t I let you have her details?’</p><p>Nightingale sat in thought once more, staring into the middle distance.  Then he gave a curt nod, almost to himself, and said with resolution ‘Yes.  You are correct, of course.  If I am to encourage Peter to this path, then I really ought not to shy away from it myself.  Very well, that would be kind.  Thank you, Alexander.’</p><p>‘Alex.’</p><p>‘Alex.’  They clinked glasses again.</p><p> <br/> <br/>Although he hadn’t necessarily intended it as such, that evening became the first of several occasions when they went for a drink together in the months that followed – as colleagues, obviously, nothing more.  It wasn’t a regular arrangement, sporadic rather, rarely in the same venue, more often than not after late briefings or seminars, but the drinks continued and over time the talk drifted from being exclusively about police matters.  Nightingale never mentioned whether or not he had taken up the offer of speaking to the therapist they’d found – he knew that Peter had – and he never found the right moment to ask.  But, without knowing for sure, it seemed likely, given certain subtle changes in Nightingale’s general manner.  Not to mention the wholescale changes to the Folly that began shortly thereafter. </p><p>Without feeling the need to engineer their meetings to be any more frequent than they were, Alex enjoyed them more than he would have thought.   Away from the duties of his role – and the presence of his apprentice - Nightingale could be surprisingly scabrous company, with very little in the way of respect for his superiors and a healthy disdain for authority.  For Alex – whose contemporaries thought only of how to inch their way further up the greasy pole – it was a breath of fresh air.  And – once he’d let down his guard, or whatever you wanted to call it – Nightingale was genuinely good company; amusing, self-deprecating and drily witty.  He rarely offered up anything personal about himself, and Alex followed his lead.  They were colleagues after all, and that was entirely appropriate.  Although it did occur to him sometimes that Nightingale never went for a drink with anyone else in the Service other than Peter.</p><p>Towards the close of the year, however, the frequency of their meetings dwindled, because – as night follows day, and, lo, the weird shit will make itself known again – Peter was reinstated, which was good, only to go almost immediately undercover, in some huge tech-wank company off the Old Street roundabout, which was not so good.   He lost sight of Nightingale for a good few weeks while the weird shit went down, and both his Miriam and his Sahra got sucked into it.   In fact, it was while doing Sahra a favour one Sunday evening, by spotting her at a Falcon-related crime scene – god help him – and in fucking Gillingham of all places - that an entirely unexpected distraction presented itself.  Distraction from what he didn’t ponder.  </p><p>*</p><p>Sahra looked dubiously up at the sky.  None of them had an umbrella and, if the heavens opened, she didn’t fancy their chances of trying to shelter in the building they’d just left.  Or been escorted out of rather.  Neither Peter nor Nightingale seemed to have noticed the dramatic change in the weather; Peter was tapping something into his phone and Nightingale’s attention seemed focused entirely on a group of trees in the middle of the gated square outside which they stood.</p><p>She eyed the sky again.  She wasn’t sure that the embroidery on the hijab she was wearing would survive a downpour, and she was sick of having them ruined on the job.  When she’d got ready for work this morning she hadn’t banked on being pulled in to visit what Seawoll had described - with almost dainty disdain - as <em>a goblin market</em>, but apparently, they weren’t that frequent and it was about time she got her face known at them.  She really should know better by now.</p><p>Peter switched off his mobile and put it in his pocket.</p><p>‘How long?’</p><p>‘Not that long.  There’s a squad car finishing up a TWOC not five minutes away which can swing by and collect us, so, what? Ten? Fifteen?  We’re to wait here.  Fifteen minutes, sir!’ he called over to Nightingale.</p><p>‘Very well,’ he said, looking over and smiling before turning back to contemplate the trees, twirling his cane idly.</p><p>She looked skywards again.  ‘Alright then.  We might make it,’ she said, half to herself, and then ‘Did you get through to my Guv?’ to Peter.</p><p>‘No.  He wasn’t at his desk.’  He glanced at his watch.  ‘It is lunchtime, to be fair.  I left a message.  Why?  What are you grinning at?’</p><p>She shot a quick glance over at Nightingale.  He wasn’t a stickler for the rules in the modern sense, but it still wasn’t the best look to be seen gossiping about a senior officer.</p><p>‘Let’s just say I’m not entirely surprised he wasn’t there.’</p><p>Peter looked blank.  Not for the first time, she thought, and possibly not for the last.</p><p>She leaned forward.  ‘He’s got a new bloke,’ she said in a low voice.</p><p>Peter’s eyes widened momentarily, and then relaxed.</p><p>‘Is that it?  I thought you were going to give me something juicy.’</p><p>‘Oh, it gets better.  He’s Job!  A Chief Super!’ she trilled.</p><p>‘What!  <em>Who</em>?’</p><p>‘A-ha!  I knew that would get you!  No one we know actually - not MPS; someone from out east, Kent…’</p><p>She realised she’d gradually raised her voice while talking and looked anxiously over at Nightingale again, but he hadn’t moved and still seemed to be staring fixedly across into the square.</p><p>‘Oh.’  Peter was losing interest.</p><p>‘.. the Medways, I think it was.’</p><p>‘What!?’ And he was back in the room.  ‘A Chief Super in the Medways?  Are you sure?’</p><p>‘Well, yeah.  I think so.’</p><p>‘Do you have a name?’</p><p>‘Yeah.  I do, as it happens,’ and she smiled smugly.</p><p>‘Ok, fine,’ Peter let out a sigh.  ‘<em>Pleeeeeeease</em>.’</p><p>She grinned.  ‘Ok.  Since you asked nicely.  Rivers.  Edward Rivers.’</p><p>‘What?  Rivers?  But that was him!  He was the one… who he rang... the one on the call.’</p><p>She rolled her eyes.  ‘Peter.  I know this might be hard for you to believe, but you’re making even less sense than usual.  What are you going on about?’</p><p>‘All the shit.  That went down last month.  You remember?’</p><p>She frowned.  ‘How could I forget, Peter?’</p><p>‘Yeah.  Well, Chief Superintendent Rivers, or whatever, was the one that Seawoll rang, when he turned up that night at the print shop in Gillingham.’  He thought, and then exclaimed.  ‘I bloody knew it!  I <em>knew</em> there was something going on there.’</p><p>‘Peter!’ she hissed, nodding over at Nightingale.</p><p>‘Yeah, ok,’ he said in quieter tones. ‘But, seriously, I <em>totally</em> said at the time that that conversation was sus’!’</p><p>‘Actually, you did,’ conceded Sahra and then swore softly as two large raindrops plopped onto her cheek and her hand in quick succession.</p><p>*</p><p>Eddy fucking Rivers.  Who he’d known when he was knee-high, back in the day, and who, after the usual bollocking that evening, had taken the slightly less usual tack of asking him out for a drink, which – after a few moments of hesitation - he’d accepted.  Well, he thought, why not?  It wasn’t as if there was anything else going on.</p><p>So he and Chief Superintendent Rivers – "call me Eddy" – had gone for a few drinks.  And then the rest, obviously.  Which was all fine.  They went out a couple more times.  Still fine.  Then suddenly, without him realising, it seemed they were an item.   Was that what he wanted?  Well - he thought about it - why wouldn’t he?  Eddy seemed keen.  He was younger than Alex – though not embarrassingly so  - and fitter, which was all very gratifying.  It wasn’t that serious and it passed the time.  And it meant he was getting laid regularly.  Which he couldn't complain about. </p><p>So he did nothing and let it carry on, carefully ignoring the little voice at the back of his head which kept asking him exactly what the fuck he thought he was doing.</p><p>He didn’t see much of Nightingale outside of briefings.  Since Peter’s undercover work had gone about as well as could be expected given his track record - and which was NCA-led anyway – he seemed to be as occupied with the aftermath as he had been with the operation itself.  And anyway it wasn’t as if they’d ever had a fixed arrangement to meet up.  Alex could have rung him, of course, and suggested it, but with Eddy in the picture it felt… off somehow.  So he left it, and a few months slid by.</p><p>Then there was the time he did see him, in the car park of Belgravia nick as it happened.  It was the Jag he spotted first, after work one evening when he was waiting for Eddy by the entrance.  He saw Nightingale approach from the other direction and waited to catch his eye, and, when he did, nodded and raised a hand in greeting.  Nightingale acknowledged him and seemed to hesitate - just as Eddy came out of the doors behind him - and Alex thought he saw Nightingale frown slightly before he turned, climbed into the Jag and drove off.</p><p>He and Eddy went for dinner as planned – something protein-heavy and carb-free – he rolled his eyes internally – then they went back to Alex’s and had vigorous sex, because – again – why not?  It was all exactly the same as it had been on previous occasions and, yet, something felt different.  As he was falling asleep, Eddy already snoring next to him, he wondered dimly what it might be and, as he drifted further towards slumber, half-thought in some inchoate way that maybe, possibly, the fact that Eddy was with him tonight was the reason that Nightingale wasn’t.  And that  - the idea just about forming as he tipped over into sleep – wasn't exactly a fair trade.</p><p>He woke, still indefinably perturbed by <em>something</em> the next morning, so after saying a distracted goodbye to Eddy - having been woken yet again by his watch alarm at some bizarre hour - instead of going back to bed, he pulled on a jumper, made a large pot of coffee and sat down with it.  And thought.  For the first time in many weeks, he gave his attention to the little voice and thought properly – and honestly - about what was going on.</p><p>On the one hand, Eddy was definitely interested and it was flattering; the whole thing in fact was effortless.  And enjoyable enough.  In the short term at least, there was nothing to prevent him dating Eddy, and quite a few things in favour of it.  He was Job, so he got it.  He was attractive and easy company.  He wasn’t demanding or weird – well, apart from the constant exercise of course - and he was a decent lay.  Really, there was no reason for it not to work.   But... there was still <em>something</em>.  Something not quite right.</p><p>After further consideration, a fair amount of caffeine, and some slightly dramatic pacing, he began to understand what it was.  It <em>was</em> something about Eddy; a flaw in him that, unfortunately, overshadowed everything else.  Something that couldn't be rectified, and, in fairness, was in no way Eddy’s fault.</p><p>He took a deep breath, and then another, and then admitted to himself that the only thing wrong with Eddy was... he wasn’t Nightingale. </p><p>So, then.  If he was with someone that he didn’t want to be because they <em>weren’t</em> Nightingale, well then it must follow that…</p><p>Oh shit.</p><p>He ended things with Eddy that week.  It was unquestionably the right thing to do and there was no point prolonging it.   Eddy was puzzled, when it happened, but accepted his hastily-concocted excuse of not being over an ex – and didn’t question the why Alex had never mentioned it before.  He frowned, then he shrugged, smiled and shook Alex’s hand – because Alex wasn’t that much of a dick that he didn’t at least do it in person – wished him well and went on his way.  Not without – Alex noticed with a wryly amused smile – giving the guy holding the door open for him the once-over on his way out.</p><p>So the only remaining question was:  what now?</p><p>He remembered Nightingale's expression in the car park at Belgravia and wondered if he was optimistically reading too much into it.  He shrugged.  Whether he was or he wasn’t, there was definitely a reserve there, a holding-back, that there hadn't been before Christmas.  He’d just have to find out how the land lay, one way or the other.  And then take it from there.</p><p>*</p><p>‘Breathe in.’</p><p>Nightingale obliged. ‘And out.’</p><p>‘And in again.’ The thin April light filtered through the vertical blinds of the UCH examining room, but the birdsong and the scents of budding spring in the city did not make it through the sealed windows.</p><p>‘And out.’  Abdul stepped back and removed his stethoscope from Nightingale’s back.  ‘Yes, that all seems to be fine; no crackles at all.  Well done.  And any trouble with this?’ he tapped lightly on the gunshot scar from Covent Garden.</p><p>‘Not a thing,’ said Nightingale. </p><p>‘Good, good.  Anything else I should be aware of?’</p><p>‘No, I don’t believe so.  Hale and hearty as ever.’ Nightingale smiled, as Abdul stepped over to the desk and made a note on a chart in a sizeable ledger.</p><p>‘Haven’t seen you for a few weeks,’ said Abdul, absently as he scribbled in the ledger.  ‘Quiet?’</p><p>‘Not as such, no,’ Nightingale grimaced.  ‘But no dead bodies in the offing.  As yet, anyway.’</p><p>‘All to the good.  Right, last couple of things then you can be on your way.’  He moved to stand in front of Nightingale and placed the arms of the stethoscope back in his ears.</p><p>‘What are you busy with then?  Something specific, or just preventing young Peter from setting fire to the Folly?’  He pressed his stethoscope to Nightingale’s chest. ‘And just breathe normally for me.’</p><p>Nightingale grinned.  ‘Something like that. Actually, we’ve been asked to be on standby to Belgravia - the MIT, you know? - but nothing concrete so far.’</p><p>At this, Abdul noticed Nightingale’s heartbeat skip slightly.  Interesting. He adjusted the stethoscope and listened again.</p><p>‘Aye?  Murder team, you say?  Well, if you’re in luck it won’t be anything you and Peter need to get involved in this time.’</p><p>‘Oh, of course.’  There it was again, his heart rate was definitely speeding up.  ‘Naturally, one wishes to have as little to do with that side of things as possible.’</p><p>‘Naturally,’ agreed Abdul with a smile.  ‘Last few now,’ he said, moving his stethoscope a little to the right.  ‘Nice and even if you would.  And I suppose,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘if there is anything, then that Inspector...  Seagale is it?’</p><p>‘Seawoll.’  The heart rate sped up further.  Very interesting.</p><p>‘Aye, Seawoll.  That’s right.  I haven’t seen him for some while.  Not since I discharged him after Covent Garden in fact, but he struck me as someone who knows what he’s doing.’</p><p>Nightingale merely grunted in response as Abdul stepped away and back to the desk.  ‘Right. All done with the physical.  You can put your shirt back on now.’ He bent over the ledger again as Nightingale dressed, and chuckled to himself.  Well, and so. That was how it was, was it? </p><p>DI Stephanopoulos hadn’t been wrong.</p><p>*</p><p>Despite his best intentions, the following weeks were busy for Alex - a court case collapsing, a rash of stomach flu laying waste the team - and didn’t allow him any obvious opportunities to get in touch with Nightingale.  But he still thought about it more than he should have, ignored Miriam’s pointed comments about lapses in concentration, and waited until the next IVA seminar at the Folly.</p><p>He attended, as he always did when MIT personnel were involved, and afterwards - as some DCs, looking slightly shell-shocked, were milling about taking tea and cakes from Molly – he ambled over to where Nightingale was standing at the side of the room, watching benevolently as Peter was besieged with eager questions by others.</p><p>‘Thomas.’</p><p>‘Alex.’ He turned. ‘Good of you to come.’</p><p>‘Not at all.  As I’ve said before, with something like this it’s good for the minions to know that the bosses have buy-in.’  He smothered a yawn.  ‘Sorry.’  He looked around.  ‘Do you think there’s any chance of getting a coffee out of Molly?’</p><p>Nightingale smiled. ‘Late night?’</p><p>‘Fat chance.  A bloody early shout to Dalston rather.’  He yawned again; having started he couldn’t stop.</p><p>‘An occupational hazard,’ commiserated Nightingale.  ‘I’m not fond of an early start either.’</p><p>‘No.  I’m with you on that.  But at least I don’t have to worry about disturbing anyone else at some ungodly hour.  Being single has its advantages in that respect-’ he said and then caught himself.  Jesus.  Could he have been any more obvious?  He <em>had</em> thought he might try to drop a hint - if it came up - sound Nightingale out a bit.  Subtly.  That had been about as subtle as a fucking house brick.  Oh well, it was done now. </p><p>Nightingale examined the contents of his teacup before speaking.  ‘Oh I, er, I had thought you were, um, with someone.  A Chief Super, I er, understood Sahra to have said.  Not from the Met though.  Kent was it?  Essex?’</p><p>‘Kent,’ said Alex.  ‘Eddy Rivers.  Yeah, I was.  Briefly.  But it was something of nothing in the end.’  He leaned forward conspiratorially.  ‘He was very, very active first thing in the morning.  Every single morning I mean.’</p><p>‘Oh, um,’  Nightingale looked slightly embarrassed, but then rallied after taking a sip of tea. ‘Er, lucky you?’</p><p>Alex looked puzzled for a second, and then broke into laughter.  ‘No!  I don’t mean that!  Far from it.  I mean he’d be up at 6am.  Every morning.  Running or playing some fucking sport or other.   Earlier still if it was his day for rowing.’</p><p>‘Good lord, really?  That sounds appalling.’</p><p>‘Yeah, it was.  So, I had to knock it on the head.  Seriously, he was one of those - all he thought about was exercise.  And - difficult though it may be to believe - I do not require constant exertion to maintain my magnificent physique.’</p><p>It started as a joke, one he had made many times before, but then he realised with horror how it might come across in this context.  He needn’t have worried.</p><p>‘Well then,’ said Nightingale, quietly, but looking him directly in the eye, ‘I can only suggest you keep on doing whatever it is you are doing.’</p><p>At which point, Abigail bounced over to ask Nightingale a question about the county records and the moment passed.  But still.</p><p> </p><p>Alex was still debating how to follow that up when a mechanical box thing turned up on a fairly routine fencing case, which had sounded an alarm at Arts and Crafts and had meant it got passed along to Belgravia en route to the Folly.  It needed personal delivery – it wasn’t the kind of thing you could drop in the post - and ordinarily, Sahra would have been the obvious choice.  But she seemed to be in the middle of a call from her mother, calls which were increasing in frequency, length, and volatility ever since she’d announced her engagement. </p><p>Alex didn’t have anything pressing in his diary, so, rather than screw up some other poor sod’s afternoon, he rang ahead personally to tell Molly he’d be over in a couple of hours to drop it off and to make sure that either Batman or the Boy Wonder would be there to take charge of the bloody thing.  </p><p>A nervous-looking uniformed constable deposited a battered cardboard box on his desk, with Gear4Music dubiously emblazoned on the side, some time later.  He closed down his PC, checked and straightened his tie – studiously avoiding Miriam’s eye - then gingerly picked up the box and headed out to his car.</p><p>He rang the doorbell to the Folly and stepped inside once the mechanism swung open the doors.  Molly was hovering on the threshold and he handed her the small bunch of gerberas which he’d brought with him.  She took the flowers with a delighted moue of thanks before Foxglove descended, abstracted them from her grasp and took off again.  As Molly rolled her eyes and set off in pursuit, she directed Alex up the main staircase and mimed the action of a hammer.</p><p>‘Right.  Got it.  Thanks Molly,’ he said and set off up the staircase.</p><p>He hadn’t been inside the Folly that often since the first wave of renovations had been completed, but he knew, from Sahra’s recitation, that the new features meant they now had a forge.  Because of course they did.  Why go to all the trouble and expense of updating the most antiquated nick in the country if you weren’t also going to put a <em>forge</em> in it.  For fuck’s sake.</p><p>Sure enough, as he got to the first landing, he heard the sound of muffled hammering coming from higher up.  Gaining the second landing, he followed the sound and, balancing the box carefully on one hand, opened the heavy door with the other.</p><p>‘I’ve brought the-‘  The words died in his throat.</p><p>Nightingale was illuminated by the light from the furnace behind him, which cast him in an improbably dramatic glow.  He was seemingly unaware of Alex’s presence and continued swinging a hammer rhythmically down to hit the end of a bound set of metal rods he held on an anvil, which glowed red at the end and gave off the odd spark when the hammer made contact.</p><p>His jacket and his tie were gone, and he wore a heavy leather apron and one protective glove on the hand that held the hot metal.   His shirtsleeves were rolled up to above his elbows, and the sinews on his forearms stood out as he worked.   His shirt had darkened under his arms with sweat, and when he half turned, Alex could see patches on the back as well where the fabric was sticking to him, and how the muscles in his shoulders and upper back flexed each time he swung the hammer.  There were smears of black on his forearms and, despite the apron, a couple on his shirt. </p><p>There was sweat on his brow also, and his hair had begun to hang down in untidy curls onto his forehead.  As Alex watched, fascinated, he tossed it back impatiently and in doing so glanced up and saw him.  He nodded, and straightened up, rotating the metal carefully as he did so.  He smiled.</p><p>‘Alex.  Hello.’</p><p>‘I’ve got the...’  He gave himself a mental shake and cleared his throat.  ‘The mechanical box… thing.  We’re not sure if it’s connected to the case, so it needs to be checked out.  Arts and Crafts should have sent an email with all the details.’</p><p>‘Of course.  Peter did mention it.  Er, best put it on the bench there, it’ll be safe enough, and we’ll have a look at it later.  I’m not really in any fit state right now, as you can see.’  He grinned down at himself ruefully.</p><p>‘No.  I mean, yes, I can see that.  Well, I’ll leave it here then, alright?’ he said, depositing the carton.   He turned back to Nightingale.  ‘All well otherwise?’</p><p>‘Yes, yes.  Can’t complain.  And you?’</p><p>‘Yeah, all good.  Pretty quiet as it goes.’</p><p>The moment stretched out between them.  ‘So you’ll, er, let us know if you find anything?  With the box.’</p><p>‘Peter will write up the fullest of reports, I have no doubt.  Cross-checked <em>and</em> cross-referenced.’</p><p>Alex smiled.  ‘He will at that.  Right then, I’ll leave you to it, while you’re busy.’  He made for the door, then turned.  ‘But, er, while things aren’t too hectic, maybe we should catch up again soon?  You can fill me in on where the NCA have got to.’</p><p>‘Yes.’  Nightingale smiled back.  ‘I’d like that.’</p><p>‘Right you are then.  I’ll give you a bell and we can sort something out.’</p><p>‘Absolutely. ‘Bye.’</p><p>‘See you.’</p><p>He was re-crossing the atrium to the front door, still in something of a daze, when he was accosted by Peter.</p><p>‘Did you bring the polynomial box, sir?  I thought Sahra might have.’</p><p>‘If you mean what I think you mean, then I did, lad, yes.  I had to come past on the way home anyway so I said I’d drop it off.  I’ve left it upstairs with your boss in the forge.’</p><p>‘In the forge?  What’s he doing up there?’</p><p>‘Hitting bits of metal with a hammer by the looks of it.  What else would he be doing?’</p><p>‘Um, well nothing other than that.  But when I saw him a couple of hours ago he said he was going to the ma- I mean the specialist library to do some research on the box.’  Peter frowned.  ‘He knew it was being dropped off today, he mentioned it earlier.’</p><p>‘Oh, well.  Maybe it slipped his mind.’</p><p>‘Yeah, maybe.  I guess.  Seems weird though.’  Peter didn’t look convinced. </p><p>‘Well, anyway, it’s upstairs.  Have a look at it, the pair of you – carefully, mind – and let us know what you think.’</p><p>‘Yeah,’ said Peter, nodding.  ‘Of course.’</p><p>‘Good lad,’ said Alex, and turned back towards the exit before anyone could see how broadly he was smiling. </p><p> </p><p>Less than a week later, on a fine, early spring evening Alex was putting the last touches to dinner.  Dinner with Nightingale.  He wasn’t sure how it had suddenly got to this point, or even what the point was that it had got to.  All he knew was that on impulse he had invited him over - casually, oh so casually - and he had accepted, and so here he was, faffing around in the kitchen and checking his watch.</p><p>Nightingale was exactly on time, because of course he was.  Alex answered the door to find him standing on the doorstep holding a bottle of wine and a small ribbon-tied box in his version of casual, which meant a two-piece single-breasted suit and a knitted silk tie.   It was not Alex’s version of casual, which was jeans and a sweater which someone once said brought out the colour of his eyes.</p><p>He stood aside to let him in and Nightingale handed over the wine and then offered the box with an embarrassed air.</p><p>‘Compliments of Molly – when I said that you were cooking dinner she insisted that I bring these along as a thank you; they’re her home-made chocolate truffles.’</p><p>Seawoll took them and closed the door.  ‘That was nice of her.  Thank her won’t you.  And yeah, I’m not terrible in the kitchen, but I’m nowhere near Molly’s standards.  I should probably say that from the off.’</p><p>‘No matter,’ said Nightingale smiling as he followed him into the living room, ‘I am uniformly terrible, so anything will be a step up from that.  In any event,’ he caught himself, clearly realising that what he had said was hardly a compliment, ‘I’m sure it will be perfectly splendid.  And the fact of anyone cooking for one at all is always to be appreciated...’ he trailed off.</p><p>Jesus, thought Alex.  You really haven’t done this in a long time, have you?</p><p>‘Come through,’ he said.  ‘G and T to start?  Or are you driving?’</p><p>‘No, no.  I, um, came by tube so I could have a drink.’</p><p>‘Ok then,’ said Alex, reaching for the Tanqueray.</p><p>The evening passed pleasantly - and innocuously - enough.  They ate at Alex’s dining table, from which he had cleared all dog-eared documents, unread magazines and old bills especially for the occasion.  He’d chosen simple dishes to cook, nothing too elaborate or flashy, which he knew he could pull off and which were far enough away from the traditional English fare that Molly still favoured above all.</p><p>They spoke of work, and Peter’s progress and the further renovations planned for the Folly; they spoke of Alex’s team and butting heads with the brass and whether he wanted to make Superintendent or not.  But they spoke of other matters too, things that were not normally canvassed across an incident room or a crime scene.   They discovered a common interest in walking – particularly at the coast – and a shared love of the jazz divas of the 50s and 60s – ‘though I’m generally more of a blues man myself’ said Alex – which led to a discussion of the comparable merits of Amy Winehouse, of whom Alex was astonished, as he readily admitted, to learn that Nightingale not only knew of but had listened to.  And, most bizarrely, it transpired that they could both speak a smattering of Danish, Nightingale from his time in the FCO before the war, and Alex via a penfriend in Holsted with whom he corresponded between the ages of 9 and 12, or ‘until I discovered boys’ as he put it.</p><p>They lingered at the table after they had eaten and continued talking, twirling the stems of their wineglasses, Alex refilling them on occasion, but neither of them drinking a great deal.</p><p>‘I didn’t make any pudding,’ he confessed.  ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth as such, so I never really got the hang of them.  But I got in some decent ice cream, I could manage an affogato.’</p><p>‘I’m not terribly hungry, actually, so no need to go to any trouble.  Perhaps just one of Molly’s truffles to round things off?’</p><p>‘Good idea, said Alex getting up.</p><p>‘And do you have any Scotch?’</p><p>‘I do actually.  Why, do you want a glass?’</p><p>‘If that’s alright.  I do find chocolate and a fairly peaty single malt go very nicely together.  In fact, do you know, chocolate digestive biscuits and Scotch match incredibly well.’</p><p>‘Well, I definitely don’t have any chocolate digestives,’ said Alex turning at the kitchen door.  ‘Maybe next time,’ he continued, without thinking.</p><p>He cursed himself immediately for the assumption, and the slip, while at the same time hoping that Nightingale would pick up on it.  Make something of it.  ‘Next time, very well then,’  with a smile, or a wink even.  But Nightingale said nothing and after hovering in the doorway for a split-second he moved into the kitchen.</p><p>He stood, staring out of the window sightlessly.  He really, honestly, did not have the first fucking clue what was going on.   He had thought that, in accepting an invitation to dinner – at his house even – it would have indicated that matters were moving in a certain direction.  But Nightingale had given no such indication over the course of the last couple of hours.  Then again, the invitation had been offered lightly, as a means of escaping the more outré experiments Molly was currently undertaking in the Folly kitchen, and it had been accepted in the same casual manner.</p><p>He mentally ran through their recent conversations to see if they yielded any clues.  There was the very definite compliment he’d paid him; Alex had been round the block often enough to know when someone was making a personal comment, especially when it was an appreciative one.  But…. maybe he <em>was</em> just being polite.  He’d been bred in a different age, after all, and he was unfailingly well-mannered to everyone.  Maybe it wasn’t anything particularly to do with Alex.</p><p>He’d said he’d deliberately not brought the Jag so he could have a drink; relax, be off-duty.  Well that was promising wasn’t it?  But on the other hand, it also meant that he was definitely assuming that he’d be going home again tonight.</p><p>Fuck!  This was the most frustrated he had been in years.   He just couldn’t read it.  Read <em>him</em>.  At all.  And he was usually pretty fucking good at it.   I mean, he’d never had any trouble intuiting what Eddy was thinking, but then again, he wasn’t sure if Eddy could even spell subtle, let alone know what it meant.</p><p>Oh well, he mentally shrugged, fuck it.  If he couldn’t read the signs, then the likeliest explanation was that there weren’t any fucking signs and he was being a fucking idiot.</p><p>On this optimistic note, he turned as Nightingale appeared at the door carrying their used dinner plates.  ‘Alright?   I thought I might as well make myself useful and bring these through.’</p><p>‘Thanks.  On the side there is fine.  I was looking for the… oh there they are.’   He picked up the scarlet box that Molly had sent, tied artfully with a crimson ribbon.  He undid it carefully and handed the open box to Nightingale, then turned and picked up a bottle of 20 year Laphroaig.</p><p>‘Any good?’</p><p>‘Spot on.’</p><p>He pulled down a couple of heavy-bottomed tumblers.   ‘I usually open mine out with a splash of water.’</p><p>‘It’s really the only acceptable way,’ said Nightingale and smiled at him.</p><p>That was it.  He couldn’t…  What the fuck was going on?   This cosy, little… bubble they were suddenly in.  What did it <em>mean</em>?</p><p>‘Thomas, I’m really sorry, but I just need to step outside for a bit, get some air.  Just a couple of minutes, ok?’</p><p>Nightingale’s expression turned immediately to one of concern and, briefly, loss.  ‘Of course.  Would you like me to leave?’</p><p>‘No!  Absolutely not!  Stay.  It sounds odd, I know, but I just need to clear my head.  Look, pour yourself a drink, go and sit down, and see how well it goes with Molly’s truffle.  I’ll be back before you know it.’</p><p>He bolted for the back door and into the garden but not before he could see Nightingale’s puzzled expression.  Fuck!  He’d made matters ten times worse now, because now he looked weird as well as desperate.  He’d just had to get out for a minute.  He was trying to work out – dispassionately, rationally – what was going on and he couldn’t do that with Nightingale standing in his kitchen smiling at him like that.</p><p>He took a deep breath.  If he was out here he might as well make use of it.  So.  Look at the clues; examine the leads.  Why was Nightingale here?  What did he want?  He tried to put himself in Nightingale's position, see the evening from his perspective.</p><p>And then, suddenly, he got it.  That was all it took.  What a bloody idiot he had been.  Because in coming at it from Nightingale’s angle, for the first time, he saw himself through his eyes.  He saw the ambiguity and hedging in his own behaviour, that the entire evening could be framed as nothing more than a friendly gesture between colleagues.  <em>He doesn’t know what to do either.</em></p><p>And fuck, thought Alex, on top of all that, it might have still been illegal the last time Nightingale had done anything like this. </p><p>Ok – he was ready to go back in – was he? – fuck! – this was like being sixteen again – aargh – it must mean that he really liked him – aargh – had he <em>really</em> just used the term “really liked him”?  – ok – just calm down – fuck!</p><p>He took a breath.</p><p>He walked back into his living room.  Nightingale stood, looking slightly worried.  ‘Look, Alex, I’ve had a lovely evening, thank you so much for dinner, but if you have things you need to… be getting on with, I can clear off.’</p><p>‘No, I don’t.  Have things to be getting on with I mean.  Sorry about that, it was a bit… melodramatic I admit, but anyway.’  He took another deep breath.  ‘The reason I needed to go outside and clear my head was because I’ve been trying to work out all night what’s actually going on here’ and he gestured to indicate the space between the two of them, ‘and yet I still could not tell you for the fucking life of me.’</p><p>He sighed. ‘In lieu of which, then, I’ll say this.’  He stood in front of Nightingale, but didn’t quite meet his gaze.  ‘I like you.  We get on, I think – better than we used to certainly – and I <em>like</em> you.  Fuck, I sound like a teenager.’</p><p>He risked looking at Nightingale then and saw that his brow had cleared and he was beginning to smile.</p><p>He made a decision.</p><p>‘So, having said all that - and given the fact that you haven’t legged it already -’ he said, and took a step closer, ‘I’m going to kiss you now.’  He paused.  ‘If you have no objection that is.’</p><p>Nightingale smiled fully at him then and it was the clearest and most unaffected thing he had ever seen.  He felt the bottom of his stomach drop, like it used to on the last terrifying descent of the rollercoaster when he was a kid.  He knew that feeling.  It could spell trouble, potentially.  But fuck it, what was life about if not taking risks like this one.</p><p>‘None whatsoever,’ said Nightingale, closing the gap between them, and tilting his face so that Alex could feel the flutter of his breath on his cheek. ‘Quite the reverse in fact.’</p><p>His lips were soft and he tasted of Scotch and chocolate.  Alex realised he’d been holding his breath, so he released it and he could feel Thomas smile, wide and gleefully, against him.</p><p>If he was surprised that Thomas became as passionate and intent as he soon did - expecting a bit more of a lead-in, maybe - he certainly wasn’t averse and took Thomas’ head between his hands, angling his face so that he could kiss him more thoroughly.  He let his hands run through and settle in Thomas’ hair, feeling the strands catch and curl between his fingers.  He’d wondered for weeks what that would feel like.</p><p>He’d wondered for weeks what all of it would feel like.</p><p>But coherent thought began to recede the longer they stayed like that, locked against each another.  The heat ratcheted up between them until, with more force than he would have expected, Thomas pushed him abruptly against the nearest wall and transferred his lips to his throat.  Some random part of Alex’s brain registered that it took a lot of strength to manoeuvre someone of his size like that, and he was impressed.  And even more turned on.</p><p>He closed his eyes as he felt Thomas run his hands under his sweater, up his back and over his chest, and heard him give a small grunt of satisfaction.  He grinned and pulled Thomas’ backside closer to him, feeling him grind purposefully against his thigh; that was always a good noise to hear.  Their breaths hitched together and Alex, with his head thrown back and Thomas lapping at the sweet spot behind his ear, couldn’t help himself and slipped a hand inside the immaculate suit trousers and felt the hard and perfect velvet line of him.</p><p>Thomas groaned, his breath tickling the shell of Alex’s ear.  He dropped his head onto Alex’s shoulder with a muffled oath and braced himself against the wall as he started to move against Alex's hand.</p><p>Alex kept a light, teasing grip on Thomas and gave a low chuckle.  As Thomas' movements became more pronounced, Alex bent his head and breathed in the scent of him for a few seconds - a mixture of green earth and something else, something smoky - before murmuring ‘Shall we?’</p><p>‘What?’ Thomas lifted his head looking momentarily baffled.  ‘I mean, aren’t we?’</p><p>‘Well, yes, we are,’ Alex smiled, his breathing slightly untoward, as he extracted his hand carefully and placed it on Thomas’ chest.  ‘But I am far too old to make love on a sofa.  Shall we go upstairs?’</p><p>‘Oh I see,’ said Thomas, smiling also.  ‘Yes, of course.’</p><p>‘On you go then,’ said Alex, standing upright with a little difficulty and propelling Thomas in the direction of the stairs with a hand on his shoulder.</p><p> <br/>Not very much later, Alex lay, for some moments, as unequivocally content as he had felt for some time.  If he had imagined how it would be - and of course he <em>had</em> thought about it - several times in recent weeks, and in some detail too - none of it had come close to the reality.  He’d anticipated a certain degree of enthusiasm if they’d made it as far as the bedroom, but the candour and complete lack of inhibition had been as unexpected as they were irresistible.</p><p>He smiled and turned his head on the pillow; his right arm was outstretched and Thomas lay face down on it. </p><p>‘That alright?’</p><p>Thomas put up his head and grinned.  ‘Very much so.  Thank you.’</p><p>‘Nothing to thank me for; come here.’</p><p>Thomas moved over and kissed him, before settling onto his back, his head resting on Alex’s shoulder.  He let out a breath.</p><p>‘And this,’ said Alex, ‘I didn’t know about,’ as he stroked a thumb over the inking on Thomas’ upper right arm.  The faded black lines were blurred with age, and he could make out a geometric shape with what looked like wings, but the figure at the top could have been anything.  ‘I would have mentioned it earlier, obviously, but I was fairly preoccupied at the time.’</p><p>‘Indeed?  And missed a valuable opportunity to gather evidence?  That seems somewhat remiss, Inspector.’</p><p>‘Somewhat,’ agreed Alex.  ‘But, in the circumstances, the preoccupation was worth it, I’d say.’ </p><p>‘Indubitably.’  They grinned at each other.</p><p>‘So what is it?  Army, I’m guessing.’</p><p>‘That’s right.  It’s the badge of my regiment.  I was 1st Parachute Battalion and we all had them done shortly after formation.’  Thomas examined it.  ‘It’s a little worse for wear now of course.  But it’s not as if anyone ever sees it.’   He looked up and smiled at Alex’s expression.  ‘Present company excepted, that is.’</p><p>They lay in comfortable silence for a while, as their breathing slowed in tandem.  The evening was not especially warm, but it was some time after the sweat had cooled on their skins before they registered it.</p><p>A draught skimmed over Alex’s chest, causing him to shiver.  ‘Come on, it’s getting cold.  Quick clean up and then into bed.  If you’re planning on staying, that is,’ he added, with the slightest hint of defiance.</p><p>Thomas smiled as he sat up.  ‘Thank you.’  He turned back to Alex. ‘I do have to be on my way at some point, however.  I’m meeting Peter at Blackhorse Road at some especially unsociable hour of the morning tomorrow, and I must go back to the Folly beforehand.  But,’ he continued as he stood up, ‘I can stay for a little while longer.'  He grinned mischievously.  'If you want me to, that is.’</p><p>‘Oh, very droll.   But, since you ask, I wouldn’t have fucking offered if I didn’t, would I?’</p><p>Thomas regarded him with an air of innocence. ‘How should I know?  You are nigh on impossible to read at times, Inspector Seawoll...’ he said, as Alex raised an unimpressed eyebrow.</p><p> <br/>He was checking his messages when Thomas came back into the bedroom and climbed into bed beside him.  Alex put his ‘phone on the nightstand and opened his arms and Thomas lay back against him as before.</p><p>Hanging over them now, somewhat predictably thought Alex, was that perverse awkwardness that often descends after the first time of sleeping with someone, when - despite what you have just been doing to each other - you consciously register exactly what it is that you have just been doing to each other. </p><p>Thomas remained silent.  Probably even worse for him, thought Alex, if it had been as long since Thomas had done this as he thought it might have been.  It was up to Alex then, and - as the inhabitants of Belgravia nick knew only too well - his only way of dealing with any delicate situation was to confront it head on.</p><p>He tightened his arm about Thomas.  ‘Alright?’</p><p>‘Yes.  Thank you.’</p><p>‘I have to say, I wasn't expecting that.’</p><p>Thomas angled his head to look at him.  ‘Really?  I say, that’s interesting because I’m fairly certain you were the one who made a pass at me.’</p><p>‘I don’t mean the entire thing.   I mean, yes, obviously I made the first move – but only because I had to.  And you responded entirely as expected.’ He shrugged.  ‘You're only human.’ </p><p>Thomas scoffed - which had been the intention.  ‘But rather,’ he said, giving Thomas' shoulder another squeeze, ‘I wasn’t expecting how we ended up.’</p><p>‘Oh?  Weren’t you?’</p><p>‘Well no, if I’m honest.’</p><p>‘You're referring to the fact that I wanted to..’</p><p>‘Yeah that.  I dunno, it’s generally not a first-time thing.  Well not in my experience anyway.  There’s usually a couple more dates at least.’</p><p>‘Dates?’ Thomas shifted to face Alex fully, raising himself on one elbow, all awkwardness dissipating.  ‘You know, I watch television on occasion, and I’ve listened to Peter and Abigail, but I can’t say I still fully understand what a date actually is.  Or constitutes, I suppose.’</p><p>Alex laughed. ‘Don’t worry, not many of us do.  Not at our age anyway.  Oh, I meant.. sorry.’</p><p>‘It’s perfectly alright.  Really,’ said Thomas and gave Alex’s hand a reassuring squeeze.  ‘But - you were saying – what?  It’s not the done thing these days?’</p><p>‘Oh fuck knows.  And who cares anyway?  Anything that happens in here concerns us and us alone.’</p><p>‘So you’re not… unnerved by it then?’</p><p>‘No!  Not at all.  If anything, the other way round.’</p><p>‘Oh I see,’ said Thomas with a grin, grey eyes glittering.  ‘You mean you would rather that <em>I</em> had…’</p><p>‘That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ said Alex, ruffling Thomas’ hair. ‘But, since we’re on the subject, I really don’t mind.  Either way suits.’  He hesitated.  ‘And anyway, there’s always next time,’ he added.  ‘Assuming there’ll be a next time of course.’</p><p>‘Oh, I would have thought so, wouldn’t you?’ said Thomas, favouring him with a wicked look and leaning forward to run a purposeful hand down Alex’s torso.</p><p>‘Alright, well good.  I was actually talking about another night… but.. yeah, oh… <em>Oh</em>.  Yep, ok then.’</p><p> <br/>Several hours – and several enjoyable false starts – later, Nightingale finally got into a cab outside Alex’s house and Alex climbed the stairs again to his bed to grab what sleep was still available.  Despite there being not much more than two hours until his alarm, he still obeyed it when it chimed annoyingly and arrived at the scene on time to meet Miriam at eight, albeit gulping from an extremely large takeaway cup of coffee.</p><p>He handed Miriam a smaller cup, which she took with a nod of thanks and turned back to the Airwave she’d been listening to, before doing an enormous double-take.</p><p>‘Bloody hell!  Look at the state of you!’ she crowed.  ‘Somebody got laid last night.’</p><p>‘That’s right, our Miriam.  Somebody did.’</p><p>‘I see.’  Miriam eyed him over the top of her cup as she took a sip.  ‘And who’s the lucky boy then?’</p><p>‘I am,’ said Alex, grinning from ear to ear.</p><p>‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Miriam.<br/> <br/> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Do the things he likes to do</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the day wore on, and the effects of far too little sleep – plus the dampening influence of a particularly nasty double murder - a suspected gangland reprisal – began to be felt, the ebullience and good mood that had carried Alex through the first few hours began to ebb away.</p><p>He was at the crime scene for most of the morning – waving away any offers of food, and subsisting on terrible coffee – until Miriam took pity on him around noon and sent him back to Belgravia.</p><p>He’d had to focus at the scene, obviously, organising initial deployment, making calls, fielding – or rather juggling – resources, and with no real capacity to consider anything else after his opening exchange with Miriam.  Once in the squad car taking him back to base, he heaved a sigh and pulled his personal mobile out of his pocket.  He ran down what messages there were, not expecting anything work-related – which there wasn’t, of course, everything had come through the Airwave or his work ‘phone – and not letting himself wonder whether there’d be something already from Thomas.  There wasn’t.</p><p>Well he was notoriously bad with ‘phones anyway, everyone knew, and, really, what had he been expecting?  He put it back in his pocket and was unnecessarily sharp with the PC who dropped him off.  Which he felt bad about afterwards.</p><p>After a regrettable stop-off at the canteen, he got through the afternoon on a combination of Red Bull, adrenaline and ready salted crisps.  He waded through his inbox, and fielded yet more calls, waiting for Miriam to return.  Whilst doing so – and as his personal ‘phone remained resolutely silent - he couldn’t help but start thinking.  Thinking that, strictly speaking, Thomas had never actually said that he wanted to see him again – not like that, anyway.  When Alex had mentioned it, he hadn’t given a direct answer one way or the other, and he’d been too distracted at the time to pursue it. </p><p>He knew that he was tired, and in danger of falling down the rabbit hole, but he couldn’t stop himself.  Maybe – maybe? – the fairly astonishing lack of inhibition Thomas had exhibited was because he’d always intended it as a one-off thing.   He’d never been involved with anyone else in living memory.  Maybe this was how he dealt with it: by very occasional – and spectacularly intense – one night stands.</p><p>Miriam got back around three, and the two of them – along with her new DC – spent the next couple of hours combing through the immediate witness statements, POLSA reports, forensics and the like, ahead of the initial briefing at five.  He left his mobile on his desk throughout and Miriam, despite casting both him and it a speculative look from time to time, thankfully said nothing.  In any event, it never buzzed.</p><p>A scheduled monthly call with other HoDs after the briefing left him wondering whether to take some paperwork home, and deal with it over a decent dinner, or get a sandwich brought in and power through.  He was meditating on the relative merits of each option – or rather, which of the two would allow him to get to bed earlier – when his ‘phone buzzed, making him almost jump out of his chair.</p><p>He turned it over, and – with his heart beating a little bit faster, which he cursed himself for – checked the screen and saw who it was from.  He sat back in his chair and opened it, smiling as he saw that it was a text as formally written - and almost as long - as a letter.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Alex</em>
  <br/>
  <em>I hope you are well. </em>
  <br/>
  <em>My apologies for not contacting you earlier.  Peter and I were obliged to spend almost the entire day in the waterways in and around Ferry Lane - on a matter I will bore you with at some later point - and the opportunity to connect my telephone there was minimal to nil - until now - so I am afraid I gave up trying.  In any event, Peter seems pleased with what we have found today, which I hope will be sufficient and with luck means that we will not be obliged to return.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>I confess I have, perhaps, not been at my brightest today, most likely due to the inordinate lack of sleep I appear to have endured last night, but I have been nonetheless sustained by some fairly stimulating recollections throughout the day, for which I have you to thank (albeit you are entirely to blame for my general predicament overall).</em>
  <br/>
  <em>In any event, I hope you have had a pleasant and productive day and - moreover - I wondered if you were free tomorrow evening and, if so, whether you would like to meet.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Yours,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Thomas</em>
</p><p>He put his ‘phone back down on the desk and didn’t even try to stop smiling.  After staring into space for almost a minute, he shook himself and started pulling together papers from his desk.  Home it was.</p><p>Once in a cab, he framed a response.</p><p>
  <em>Thomas</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Thanks for your text.  Yes, I am free tomorrow and would very much like to meet up.  Did you have anything particular in mind?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>A</em>
</p><p>Before he’d travelled more than 200 metres in late rush hour traffic along Shaftesbury Avenue, his ‘phone lit up again.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Alex</em>
  <br/>
  <em>That’s excellent news.  I had been thinking about the blues bar on Kingly Street.  Do you know it?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Thomas</em>
</p><p>Blues.  He smiled.</p><p>
  <em>I do know it, yes.  Good choice.  See you there? 8?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>A</em>
</p><p>Less than a minute later:</p><p>
  <em>See you at 8 o’clock tomorrow. </em>
  <br/>
  <em>Until then,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Thomas</em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>He took the steps to the exit at Oxford Circus two at a time and turned hard left down Argyll Street.  It wasn’t full tourist season yet, but he still had to navigate gangs of European teenagers milling about for no apparent reason.  He checked his watch – just after 7.50.  He didn’t want to be late, but nor did he want to arrive a sweating mess.  He settled for a brisk stride.</p><p>He’d meant to leave a good ten minutes earlier, but somehow the afternoon had run away with him.  After sleeping until noon he went for a quick run around Highbury Fields – quick, but definitely not speedy, as it was some weeks since he’d managed it – and then got a haircut at the hipster barbers on Islington Green that he normally wouldn’t be seen dead in.  He spent the rest of the day trying not to think about the evening – desultorily doing paperwork, running a few local errands – with the overall effect that he was now running late. </p><p>If he was honest with himself, the lateness was more due to the fact that he'd spent far longer than he normally would thinking about what he was going to wear - including a full quarter of an hour debating whether he was going to put on a jacket at the weekend when he wasn't actually attending a wedding -  before realising that this was not the last scene of <em>Grease</em>, and he was not Olivia fucking Newton-John, and he should just wear what he always did.</p><p>As he came in sight of the bar, he saw that a queue was already forming at the entrance, but nothing too worrying.  He spotted him immediately, lounging - it was the only word for it – against the wall opposite with his hands in his pockets and looking up the narrow street in Alex’s direction.  He slowed his pace and approached Thomas who, it transpired, had also dispensed with a jacket for the evening and was wearing a white shirt with a fine blue check and collar unbuttoned no less, under a navy sweater with dark grey trousers.  As Alex stopped in front of him he straightened up, pushing himself off the wall.</p><p>‘Hello.’</p><p>‘Hello.’</p><p>They smiled at each other and the moment stretched out.</p><p>Alex was the first to recover, and nodded in the direction of the bar.  ‘Shall we?’</p><p>Thomas smirked and Alex rolled his eyes.  ‘Oh very funny.  Come on,’ and turned to walk across the street hearing Thomas chuckle behind him.</p><p>They took their places at the back of the queue, which moved relatively quickly, so that they were admitted in a matter of minutes.  Once through the door, Alex regarded Thomas suspiciously.  ‘Was that your doing?’</p><p>Thomas looked shocked – too shocked perhaps – ‘What?  Why would I need to do anything?  It’s 8pm – time to start admitting people in earnest clearly.’</p><p>‘Hmm,’ said Alex.  ‘I notice you’re not denying it.’  </p><p>They got drinks and made their way to the performance area at the back of the room.  They were too late for a table, but early enough to find a space near the front, and next to the wall.  Alex had, since he was 16, been aware of his height at public events and naturally gravitated to the side of any auditorium.  This was a relatively small, low-ceilinged room, which would only become busier, sweatier and rowdier as the night wore on, but the same rules applied.  It also meant that, leaning against the wall, in the low light, he’d be able to legitimately stand as close to Thomas as he wanted.</p><p>As the band set up on the tiny stage, and the room filled up behind them, they drank and chatted, mainly about the cases they’d been working the day before, exchanging conspiratorial smiles about how challenging it had been after so little sleep.   </p><p>‘I like this, by the way,’ said Thomas and ran his hand briefly over the stubble at the back of Alex’s newly-shorn head.  He shivered involuntarily at the contact.  ‘Good.  Or rather, thanks.’</p><p>Thomas smiled.  ‘Not at all.’</p><p>They both turned as the musicians – two white men with greying quiffs on guitar and double bass and a Black man in his twenties on drums – who had been checking levels for the last few minutes, began a few exploratory chords, and then launched into a version of "Hi-Heel Sneakers", with a definite rockabilly edge, and they settled in to watch.  </p><p>Halfway through the first set, Alex edged his way back to the bar and returned with two bottles of beer.  He offered one to Thomas, saying apologetically in his ear, ‘Sorry, they’re a bit warm.  It’s already that time of night.’  </p><p>‘No matter,’ said Thomas, turning, and, rather than taking hold of one, placed his hands briefly on both.  Over the music, Alex couldn’t tell what Thomas muttered quietly, but before he could wonder in earnest, the glass of the bottles chilled instantly under his hands and he nearly dropped them.</p><p>He narrowed his eyes as Thomas took one of the beers from him.  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’</p><p>Thomas grinned.  ‘No harm done.’  He clinked his bottle against Alex’s and turned back to watch the band again.</p><p>In the interval between sets, they had a spirited debate about the clear fact that jazz wouldn’t exist without the blues; so spirited in fact that the couple next to them – who had been edged closer and closer by the press in the room -  were compelled to join in, one on each side.   It was that kind of night.  But once Thomas and the male of the couple got on to different modes in jazz, and the relative merits of each, and his partner rolled her eyes resignedly at Alex, he wasn’t sorry to see the musicians take to the stage again. </p><p>As the drummer counted them in, the crowd – which had increased in number, if that were possible – pushed forward as one.  Alex edged closer still to Thomas, who, feeling it, fitted his spine against him.  In the crush, and the general atmosphere, Alex was able to sneak his right arm unobtrusively around Thomas where they stood and they kept time with the music together.  In the usual way, people broke off to dance in impossibly tiny spaces directly in front of the band, rising from tables and pushing through from the bar and the set ended with an encore amidst stomps and whoops and hollers from the crowd.</p><p>The musicians edged off the stage and towards the drinks waiting for them.  Thomas turned to Alex, grey eyes alight.  ‘I haven’t been anywhere like this in a <em>very</em> long time.  That really was excellent.’</p><p>Alex grinned back.  ‘Wasn’t it.’  The throng around them ebbed again, heading for the bar.  ‘What do you want to do then?  Do you want to stay here for a bit?’</p><p>Thomas' gaze intensified. He looked away quickly then back to Alex and cleared his throat.  ‘Um, extremely enjoyable as this has been – and I do suggest we pay another visit some time – there are certain other things I think I would rather be doing instead.’</p><p>Alex caught his mood immediately.  ‘Oh.  Yeah.   Me too, now you mention it.’</p><p>Thomas smiled.  ‘Good.  In which case, may I impose upon you again?  I know that, strictly speaking, it is my turn to, er, put us up, but I really think I must accustom Molly to the idea of this... development – which reminds me, you should come over for tea soon – before I can have you at the Folly.  Well,’ he caught himself, ‘you know what I mean.’</p><p>Alex grinned again and picked up their sweaters from where they had been discarded over a random chair back.  ‘I’d’ve thought that was a given, but yeah, of course you can.’  He handed Thomas’ to him.  ‘Shall we?’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I <em>really</em> wanted to tag this “implied service top Seawoll”, but I lost my nerve.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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